


Pulling Scarves

by Moorishflower



Series: A Cold Academic Hell [20]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2011-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has sort of a thing for making out in semi-public places. Dean can get behind that. Part of the Cold Academic Hell 'verse</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulling Scarves

Dean wears the scarf that Castiel gave him every day that it’s not too warm. It’s February, now, not much chance of a sudden spring thaw, and so every morning he wakes up and gets dressed, and on his way out the door he wraps the scarf around his neck, soft, warm. He likes to imagine that there’s still some part of it that smells like Castiel, even though that’s impossible. Sam always gives him those stupid googly _he’s precious_ eyes whenever he sees Dean touching the scarf, and Dean always responds by elbowing him, or stomping on his foot, or sometimes just glaring until Sam stops. But it doesn’t keep Dean from wearing the scarf every day.

It’s snowing today, and everything is once again blanketed in white as Dean pulls into his customary parking space and cuts the engine. Sam, sitting next to him, is wearing those fluffy, stupid-looking earmuffs that he brought home one day, and Dean thinks that Sam isn’t being entirely honest with him about his own situation. Maybe Sam really did break it off with whoever it was he was thinking of seeing, maybe out of fear or out of realization that dudes aren’t really his thing…but what if he didn’t? That thought lingers in Dean’s mind. What if Sam is still seeing someone? Or seeing a new someone? Does that mean he doesn’t trust Dean enough to tell him the truth? Or does it just mean that he’s worried Dean will think badly of him?

He’d thought they were past that. Sam had told him he didn’t care, had “given his blessing,” as it were, and Dean had thought that his own approval had been obvious.

“S’cold,” Sam mutters, and then pushes open his door. He steps out, his boots crunching in the new-fallen snow. “You coming?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. It’s Tuesday; Sam looks less than excited to be out in the cold and the snow, but Dean pulls his scarf up around his mouth as he gets out of the car, hiding his smile. Every day that he gets to see Castiel is a good day. He’s sure that the giddiness of a new relationship ( _relationship_ , Jesus, they’ve only been seeing each other for a little while now, is he already thinking of it as a full-blown relationship?) will wear off soon enough, but for now he’s riding the high of it and nothing seems to bother him.

“Sam,” Dean calls out, and Sam pauses, rubbing his hands together. “You okay, man?”

“Uh. Yeah, why?”

“There’s nothing you want to tell me?”

Sam glances to the side, huffing softly. When he looks at Dean again, his expression is neutral. “No, Dean, I’m fine. Really.”

Dean squints against the swirling snow, and then shrugs. _I’ll find out sooner or later._ “If you say so.”

Sam flaps his hand dismissively, then turns around and tromps off through the snow. Dean, after a moment, follows him.

The day passes by in a blur. Without Sam to distract him during his first class Dean goes to autopilot, and gets a bruise to the shin for his efforts when Rufus kicks his feet out from under him.

But then it’s first year seminar, and Dean is sitting in the front row with no real recollection of how he got there, except it doesn’t matter because Castiel is walking into the room, and the first thing he does is _smile_. The girl sitting next to Dean looks like she might swoon, and Dean ducks his head, feeling almost embarrassed. He can still feel the smile like a ray of light against the crown of his head.

“Good morning class,” Castiel says. “Here is the attendance sheet. Today we will…”

Dean has no idea what they talk about during class. All he knows is that Castiel is wearing a white button-up dress shirt and a jacket with patches on the elbows, and if anyone else were wearing it Dean would think they were weird or possibly stuck in the nineteen-sixties or something, but it’s _Castiel_ , with his glasses perched on the end of his nose and his long, elegant fingers dancing as he uses his hands to demonstrate something.

When Dean looks down at the notes he’s taken, he sees that he’s only written the word “fuck” twice, along with a small drawing of a smiling face. Dean stares at his notebook. Maybe if he glares hard enough at it some real notes will magically appear.

He doesn’t even notice the other students standing all around him, and then filing slowly out of the room.

What he _does_ notice, though, is the sound of the door being shut. He starts, glancing up at Castiel, who approaches his desk with the long, lanky stride of a predator.

“Your note-taking skills,” he says, “leave something to be desired.” He glances down at Dean’s notebook, laying his hand on it, fingertip tracing elegant cursive over the “fuck” that Dean’s scrawled at the top of the page. “This has nothing to do with my class.”

Dean swallows. “Kinda hard to concentrate when you’re wearing that jacket, Cas.”

Castiel smiles at him, and then slowly shrugs his shoulders, letting the jacket fall loosely down over his arms. Dean watches, biting his lower lip.

“Don’t do that,” Castiel murmurs.

“Huh?” Dean wets his lips, distracted by the drape of Castiel’s jacket. What if he grabbed those loose sleeves and pulled them tight, keeping Castiel from moving away? He wonders if there’s another class in this room, if they’ll be walking in any second…

“I said…” A hand curls itself in Dean’s scarf, hauling him up over the desk. It’s not tight enough to cause him discomfort, but he can feel it pulling taught against his skin, and Castiel is bare inches away, his breath puffing warm against Dean’s cheek. Dean swallows weakly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Castiel leans forward, closing the distance between them and catching Dean’s bottom lip in his mouth, sucking it between his teeth and pressing his tongue against the inside of Dean’s lip, over the ridge of his gums. Dean makes a soft, throaty noise, and Castiel lets go of his lip in order to swallow it, their mouths sealed together. He clutches at Castiel’s shoulder, caught between the desk and his scarf and Castiel’s hand, and really, if he could just get his jeans open…

“ _That_ ,” Castiel breathes, and then pulls away, the scarf slipping like silk from his hand as Dean falls back into his seat, flushed and his breathing uneven.

“Oh,” he says, and Castiel smiles at him.

“You will be late for your next class, Dean.”

“You asshole,” Dean says dazedly.

A moment later he pushes himself stiffly, awkwardly up from his desk, gathers his backpack and his notebook, and, casting one last mournful glance over his shoulder at Castiel, he leaves the classroom.

He _will_ have his revenge. He just needs to think of how to go about it.


End file.
